2700 block, W Michigan Ave, Western Michigan University, Kalamazoo, MI, September 20, 2025
by Ron Riekki
I see fog: the feel of San Francisco,
of swamp, of isolation, of Gothic,
of Dickens, of Doyle, of death.
A girl's dressed Goth, smoking
outside the bar across the street.
The air is thick with cannabis,
so much so that I feel high just
walking. I get food. While I
wait, I go to other businesses
nearby. There’s multiple, all
supplying either food or drink,
signs with a bright white VAPE
and a thick red BEER/LIQUOR.
I’ve come late, to get a feel for
what it was like at the time that
the shooting happened. This is
Michigan’s fourth mass shooting
in two months. We’re borderline
on campus/off campus. I wonder
where in the parking lot that it
happened. I go to a pizza place
while waiting for my food. They
nod that, yes, they know about
the shooting. It happened at
the building next door. I go
across the street, to a bar, ask
for water. They give me some.
I talk to the security guard, ask
him if he knows anything about
the shooting. He points where
it happened, across the street.
I ask if he’s worried about any
more shootings. No, he says.
I go in Two Fellas Grill. Its
name reminds me of the film
Goodfellas. “Layla.” Tommy
gets whacked. The place is
empty, totally empty, except
four employees. I ask if they
heard about the shooting.
They look me over. Why’m
I asking about the shooting?
One guy looks to see what’s
in my hand. I’m holding
a notebook. I don’t take
notes. The guy says he
took video, of the aftermath.
Was he here when it happened?
No. But he lives nearby.
He came right away. I ask
what caused it. A girl
behind the counter says
there’s lots of rumors,
maybe gang-related, or
maybe somebody got
jumped. She says that
Kalamazoo used to be
the 4th most dangerous
city, but now it’s 2nd.
The guy says changes
are going to happen.
I ask what. He says,
Changes. Like what?
He says that’s being
talked about, but they
used to close at 4 a.m.,
but now they’re going
to close at 3 a.m. instead.
I ask about cameras and
he says they have those
already. I tell him that
there must be incentive,
since this is campus and
there’s students to protect.
He says we have to protect
everyone. He asks if I’m
going to order anything.
I can tell he’s done. I go
back to the place where I
ordered food. I eat next
to another table covered
with boxes, old computer
screens, a big bag of soy
sauce, the feel more like
warehouse than restaurant.
I talk to the workers there—
a chef, a driver, a guy who
takes the orders. One says
he lives in Battle Creek, sees
shootings all the time, more
than I can count on my hands,
that’s for sure. I ask what can
be done to lessen the violence.
It can’t be helped. I ask if there
is anything we can do. All three
say that they don’t think anything
is going to change gun violence
in America. Nothing. There’s
a tip jar nearby that’s marked:
Tiperoni 😊 Thank yoooooooo
The phone rings constantly.
Nobody eats inside, but Door
Dash people keep coming in
and out. The guy asks me if
I want to see the footage of
the shooting. I’m stunned.
You have it on camera? He
pulls out his phone and in
a few seconds I’m seeing it
happen in front of me. It’s
five black kids. Children,
really. Looking high-school
age. And it lasts for just
seconds. Maybe eight or
so seconds. An ugly brawl
where fists are flailing and
it feels a bit like four against
one, except it’s too chaotic
to fully know who fights who
and quick, incredibly quick,
so quick that I have him show
me the footage three times:
one of them pulls out a gun
and starts shooting. One kid
shot in the stomach and three
shot in the feet. This is what
I realize—how incredibly
fast someone can pull out
a gun. Another revelation:
how having a gun doesn’t
protect you. He fired five
shots before I even realized
he’d pulled a gun out. Where
did he get it? I ask. It seems
like it just magically appeared.
From his pants, the guy says,
taking his phone back. That’s
how fast, in three seconds, less,
you can shoot four people. I
pull out my phone, time it.
It’s maybe two seconds and
four people have been shot.
And all of them could have
concealed weapons/permits
and it would do nothing.
We have this conversation
just ten days after Charlie
Kirk’s debating gun violence
was ended by gun violence
and I ask the three in front
of me, saying, you must have
some ideas of solutions, and
they say, no, there is nothing
we can do, and I push them
on this, but they stick to it,
this feeling of hopelessness.
I leave. I’ve gone to three
other mass shootings and
people there have had ideas
of how to fix things, but now
the feeling is there’s nothing
we can do. I go to the parking
lot and have this revelation that
the shooting happened inside
the restaurant. I had just seen
the footage. I’d assumed it
was in the parking lot, but
it was inside. I get in my car.
A podcast starts up. It’s three
men talking in toxic hyper-
masculine language. I turn
it off. I start to drive down
the street. A car is alongside
me, going the exact same speed.
They’re in the passing lane, but
they don’t pass, just riding along-
side. I make a turn I don’t need
to make. I stop to get some gas.
The signs here say:
5 C OFF A GAL
REWARDS
and
2 SLICE S OF
P IZZA &
L G BI G GLUP
4 W RE WARDS
I’m feeling depressed, but I laugh
at the word “GLUP.” I pay, sit
down and look up to see another
sign on a pawn shop nearby:
GUNS &
AMMO
of swamp, of isolation, of Gothic,
of Dickens, of Doyle, of death.
A girl's dressed Goth, smoking
outside the bar across the street.
The air is thick with cannabis,
so much so that I feel high just
walking. I get food. While I
wait, I go to other businesses
nearby. There’s multiple, all
supplying either food or drink,
signs with a bright white VAPE
and a thick red BEER/LIQUOR.
I’ve come late, to get a feel for
what it was like at the time that
the shooting happened. This is
Michigan’s fourth mass shooting
in two months. We’re borderline
on campus/off campus. I wonder
where in the parking lot that it
happened. I go to a pizza place
while waiting for my food. They
nod that, yes, they know about
the shooting. It happened at
the building next door. I go
across the street, to a bar, ask
for water. They give me some.
I talk to the security guard, ask
him if he knows anything about
the shooting. He points where
it happened, across the street.
I ask if he’s worried about any
more shootings. No, he says.
I go in Two Fellas Grill. Its
name reminds me of the film
Goodfellas. “Layla.” Tommy
gets whacked. The place is
empty, totally empty, except
four employees. I ask if they
heard about the shooting.
They look me over. Why’m
I asking about the shooting?
One guy looks to see what’s
in my hand. I’m holding
a notebook. I don’t take
notes. The guy says he
took video, of the aftermath.
Was he here when it happened?
No. But he lives nearby.
He came right away. I ask
what caused it. A girl
behind the counter says
there’s lots of rumors,
maybe gang-related, or
maybe somebody got
jumped. She says that
Kalamazoo used to be
the 4th most dangerous
city, but now it’s 2nd.
The guy says changes
are going to happen.
I ask what. He says,
Changes. Like what?
He says that’s being
talked about, but they
used to close at 4 a.m.,
but now they’re going
to close at 3 a.m. instead.
I ask about cameras and
he says they have those
already. I tell him that
there must be incentive,
since this is campus and
there’s students to protect.
He says we have to protect
everyone. He asks if I’m
going to order anything.
I can tell he’s done. I go
back to the place where I
ordered food. I eat next
to another table covered
with boxes, old computer
screens, a big bag of soy
sauce, the feel more like
warehouse than restaurant.
I talk to the workers there—
a chef, a driver, a guy who
takes the orders. One says
he lives in Battle Creek, sees
shootings all the time, more
than I can count on my hands,
that’s for sure. I ask what can
be done to lessen the violence.
It can’t be helped. I ask if there
is anything we can do. All three
say that they don’t think anything
is going to change gun violence
in America. Nothing. There’s
a tip jar nearby that’s marked:
Tiperoni 😊 Thank yoooooooo
The phone rings constantly.
Nobody eats inside, but Door
Dash people keep coming in
and out. The guy asks me if
I want to see the footage of
the shooting. I’m stunned.
You have it on camera? He
pulls out his phone and in
a few seconds I’m seeing it
happen in front of me. It’s
five black kids. Children,
really. Looking high-school
age. And it lasts for just
seconds. Maybe eight or
so seconds. An ugly brawl
where fists are flailing and
it feels a bit like four against
one, except it’s too chaotic
to fully know who fights who
and quick, incredibly quick,
so quick that I have him show
me the footage three times:
one of them pulls out a gun
and starts shooting. One kid
shot in the stomach and three
shot in the feet. This is what
I realize—how incredibly
fast someone can pull out
a gun. Another revelation:
how having a gun doesn’t
protect you. He fired five
shots before I even realized
he’d pulled a gun out. Where
did he get it? I ask. It seems
like it just magically appeared.
From his pants, the guy says,
taking his phone back. That’s
how fast, in three seconds, less,
you can shoot four people. I
pull out my phone, time it.
It’s maybe two seconds and
four people have been shot.
And all of them could have
concealed weapons/permits
and it would do nothing.
We have this conversation
just ten days after Charlie
Kirk’s debating gun violence
was ended by gun violence
and I ask the three in front
of me, saying, you must have
some ideas of solutions, and
they say, no, there is nothing
we can do, and I push them
on this, but they stick to it,
this feeling of hopelessness.
I leave. I’ve gone to three
other mass shootings and
people there have had ideas
of how to fix things, but now
the feeling is there’s nothing
we can do. I go to the parking
lot and have this revelation that
the shooting happened inside
the restaurant. I had just seen
the footage. I’d assumed it
was in the parking lot, but
it was inside. I get in my car.
A podcast starts up. It’s three
men talking in toxic hyper-
masculine language. I turn
it off. I start to drive down
the street. A car is alongside
me, going the exact same speed.
They’re in the passing lane, but
they don’t pass, just riding along-
side. I make a turn I don’t need
to make. I stop to get some gas.
The signs here say:
5 C OFF A GAL
REWARDS
and
2 SLICE S OF
P IZZA &
L G BI G GLUP
4 W RE WARDS
I’m feeling depressed, but I laugh
at the word “GLUP.” I pay, sit
down and look up to see another
sign on a pawn shop nearby:
GUNS &
AMMO
Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice.
